Isla smiled, and it was a smile full of quiet power and promise.
‘Haata shar,’ she said.
To kill her.
…
Alina had tried and failed to secure an audience with the phoenixian king. When she had first arrived at the palace months ago, the royal family had been away travelling. She had wanted to stand before the monarch and plead for an army, warriors to march back to her kingdom and drive the witches into the grave. But now?
Now the thought no longer stirred her.
Now, she found comfort in the idea of becoming a shadow, unseen, unspoken, a ghost gliding through the cracks of the world. She liked the idea of slipping unnoticed into Hagan’s chambers, one silent night, and opening his throat with the edgeof a blade.
A phantom of retribution.
No army.
No banners.
Nomercy.
No. Alina didn’t want an army.
All she needed was herself.
But first, she would master the ways of the Phanax. She had been trained in the Dunayan way, swift and unforgiving, but if she could learn the phoenixian elite's deadly precision, she could become a storm unto herself, a force even her god might not be able to withstand.
Mareena had invited her to dinner last night. Alina declined most nights, preferring solitude and silence. But today…today she wanted to see the two Dunayans. She had trained without pause while Isla and Arena were led away to rest and recover.
At some point during her relentless drills, Mareena had appeared. She seated herself in one of the low, phoenixian chairs, elegant and built as much for lounging as for watching. She said nothing, simply sat and observed.
Alina did not acknowledge her, continuing until sweat clung to her skin and her breath came hard and fast. Only then did she stop.
Still, Mareena said nothing. She didn’t need to.
She saw the pain in Alina’s eyes. It was impossible not to. But she never pressed, never prodded.
And for that, Alina was quietly, deeply grateful.
Now, Alina sank into one of the great floor cushions, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes gifted to her by the palace. Her desert garments, few in number and caked with dust and blood, lay discarded, their fibres too worn to carry her forward. The servants had, with the usual fanfare, laid out an array ofphoenixian dresses across her bed, silks and embroidery in every shade of gold and white, and she had rejected each one without hesitation.
She had asked for something she could fight in.
The Phanax-style attire was a welcome compromise. Soft, breathable silk wrapped elegantly but practically around her limbs, allowing both movement and ease. It had taken her time, back in the desert, to abandon dresses in favour of trousers. But now?
Now, the very idea of wearing a gown felt like donning someone else’s skin.
‘Can you trust them?’ Mareena asked quietly, stepping into the room with the subtle grace that always seemed to accompany her. She seated herself beside Alina, leaving two vacant spaces across the low table.
Alina didn’t answer at once. She reached for a piece of fruit, something sharp and sweet, and bit down as she considered the question.
‘I don’t think I can trust anyone,’ she said eventually, the bitterness sharper than the fruit’s flesh. She tried not to notice the way Mareena flinched, how her hand drifted forward as if to offer comfort, a touch, a tether, only for Alina to pull her arm swiftly out of reach.
No words passed between them. None were needed.
The doors opened.
Isla and Arena stepped into the room, now dressed in phoenixian fighting garb, their silhouettes no longer draped in the softness of survival, but shaped by purpose.
